FUSE (5 page)

"You didn't think that I was trying to make a career out of working for tips at a bar?" I don't want the question to sound any way other than authentic. I hadn't given a second thought to what he thought of me since I met him. He doesn't strike me as the type of person who judges anyone based on their job or social standing. Maybe he's a master at hiding that, but I don't see it.

He scratches the back of his head. "You told me when we first met that you're new to Manhattan. I guess I just assumed that meant you were new to waitressing too. You didn't exactly have a firm grip on that tray you were carrying around."

I pull my hand to my mouth to hide the uncontrollable grin I feel. "Are you suggesting that I looked like a newbie that night?"

He reaches out to grab my hand to pull it from my lips. "I'm telling you that I watched you that entire night and you looked out of place. Your mind isn't in it. It's not who you are."

I can't argue that point because he's completely right. I look down to where his hand is still cradling mine. "It pays the bills for now."

"That's all that counts sometimes," he offers even though I doubt he's ever worried too much about where his next dollar bill is coming from.

I'd researched him for most of the night after I got out of the taxi and raced into my apartment. Instead of getting sidetracked by all the pictures of him online, I'd read about his career and his personal life. He talked about a woman named Alexa the first night I met him, but there are dozens of articles online written about how he moved to Paris several years ago to take care of his girlfriend after she'd been horribly injured in a car crash. Her name is Liz. He mentioned her only briefly during his drunken revelations.

I want to ask him about her, but considering the fact that he just learned my last name and my main life goal within the last five minutes, asking about his past relationships seems intrusive.

"Do you want me to show you around?" He chuckles as he drops my hand so he can wave it around the almost completely barren, very large, industrial looking space. "I'd like to show you some of my work."

"I'd love to see your work," I say with enthusiasm even though I'd much rather sit in the reception area and talk to him.

"Follow me." He flashes me a quick smile before he turns quickly and walks across the room.

B
eck

Something's changed about her since I said goodbye to her on the street last night. She's looking at me differently. One of the unfortunate parts of being newsworthy is that you can't control all the information that's out there. I'm reminded of that every time I search for myself online. My decision to drop everything and take off for Paris with Liz after her accident is right there in black and white on numerous websites. It's not just the stories of how selfless I was to take on the task of helping her to recover after she'd suffered numerous broken bones but my desperate need to get her into rehab to overcome her drinking problem is documented too. Anyone can read the quotes I made about loving her endlessly. Any person who took the effort and five minutes out of their lives can see pictures of me pushing her in a wheelchair in Paris, kneeling down to kiss her and holding her tight to me as she took her first steps on the street outside my apartment there.

I don't have many secrets left to myself. Alexa was the only one. No one knew that I'd leave the hospital once Liz fell asleep and I'd crawl into bed with Alexa. I've never told a soul that I had an affair with famed photographer Noah Foster's wife before they'd met. I keep that close to me. I'm grateful that it doesn't litter the gossip websites or that it's not been frozen in time forever in any photographs online. Any personal reminders I had left of my time with either woman has been long thrown away or deleted.

"Is there something you want to ask me, Zoe?" I turn back towards her as we approach the wall where my completed paintings are hung. "You can ask me anything."

Her eyes scan my mouth before she's jarred by the sound of the heavy metal door of the studio being opened. It's Albert. He's back with a tray of paper cups and a newspaper.

"Wait here." I touch her shoulder wanting her to stay in place. I don't want my past to impact this before it's even found its own feet. I like her. I like being near her and I want to know more about her.

"I will," she says quietly as her eyes scan the myriad of large paintings that cover the wall in this corner of the space.

I move swiftly towards where Albert is waiting for me. I know that by the time I reach him I'll be out of Zoe's earshot. I'd bought the upper floor of the building years ago with the intention of developing it into several rooms. My initial vision had been a studio combined with a gallery. In those now, mostly forgotten, plans I'd wanted to incorporate a dedicated space to teach others about art. I'd started a mentorship program five years ago but after Liz's accident I had let the dream die. I've been wallowing so happily in self-pity that every goal I've had in life has been pushed aside in favor of mourning the loss of the women I thought I'd loved. Now, as I walk towards Albert and my eyes settle on the concrete floors and brick walls, I realize that I need to dive back into my plans.

"Did you get the cocoa?" There's a question I never expected to hear myself saying.

"I did." He pushes the tray into my hands before he pulls one cup free. "This is my coffee. That's your cocoa, sir."

"Call me, Beck," I remind him for the third time since I arrived at the studio this morning. "I need you to do something for me."

"That's why I'm here," he says excitedly. "Tell me what it is and I'll get right on it."

"Set up some meetings with contractors." I motion to the left with my chin. "I want to transform this space."

"Transform this space?" he parrots back. "We're going to renovate?"

"We're going to renovate." I nod. "It's time to for a change."

***

"I
think the last time I had a cup of cocoa was when I was a young boy." I place the now empty cup down on the table in front of us.

"The last time was last night." Zoe holds tightly to her cup. "You had a few drinks at the pub before we went for cocoa so maybe that part is blurry to you."

She's teasing me. No one, but my brother, teases me. I like it. I like that she's not intimated by who I am. I doubt that she gives a shit about it. I need that.

"I remember every moment of last night." I cross my legs and lean back into the softness of the black, leather sofa. "I had a great time."

"I did too." Her eyes scan my legs. "What's it like being an artist?"

The question catches me off guard. I'm asked variations of it when I do interviews for magazines or websites but this is different. I'm not going to give her the canned answer I offer to everyone else.  "It's lonely."

The way her shoulders push back into the leather speaks of her surprise. "Lonely?"

"Art, or at least my version of it, is a solitary process." I nod towards the opposite corner of the space where my completed work is hanging. "I generally can't paint when I'm around other people."

"Really?" She cocks her left brow. "So you're usually alone when you're here?"

I can't sense if she's asking because of genuine curiosity or it it's just a cordial question meant to push the conversation along. I'm going to assume it's the former out of my need to feel connected to her. "I haven't been here a lot. I haven't been that interested in painting the last year or two."

There's no disguising her reaction this time. Her words give her away almost instantly. "Year or two? You haven't been painting in years?"

I rest my hand on my chest. "I have to feel things inside of here to be able to create. I haven't felt any of that."

She pulls on the bottom of her hair. Her fingers twist effortlessly around one of the luxurious brown curls. "Is that because of the women you loved?"

Women? She knows. This beautiful gentle person sitting next to me is about to learn all of my deep dark secrets and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Z
oe

Albert is sitting at a small, circular reception desk not more than thirty feet away from us busily talking on his cell phone. I can tell that he takes his job seriously, especially the part about minding his own business. He hasn't glanced in our direction since we sat on the long, plush leather sofa. He hasn't stopped what he's doing to eavesdrop and he didn't blink an eyelash when I brought up the women Beck's cared for. I'd much rather be having this conversation in private, but I can tell, that we are. Albert is paid to keep himself busy and to be unaware.

"You read more about me online, haven't you?" He taps his finger on my knee. "Tell me what you know about me, Zoe."

I bring my eyes to his. I wouldn't know where to start. The man has lived more in his thirty-three years than I can expect to live in ten lifetimes. He's traveled all over the world. He's won prestigious awards for his art and he's been involved with many beautiful women. He owns homes on several different continents and his smile is the most beautiful smile I've ever seen. To say that I've never known anyone like him is a gross understatement. I never knew men like him existed.

"I know that you have a brother." I take the easy route and start with his family. "I read that your mother died a few years ago. I'm sorry about that."

His face softens as the mention of his mother. The article I read about her suggested that the two of them were close. She'd married his father before they divorced when Beck was a young boy. Then she'd remarried and had another son, Jax. She'd lived in Los Angeles with him until her death.

"She was amazing." He closes his eyes briefly. "I miss her."

I'd like to tell him that I understand what he's feeling but I can't. "From what I read about her, she sounds like she was very special."

"Are your parents still alive?"

I nod slowly. I always feel a pang of guilt when I tell people that my parents are not only still alive, but have been happily married for thirty-two years. I'm fortunate. I know that. "They're both still alive, yes."

"Are you close to them?"

I was. I want to be. Grief has a way of pulling people apart even when it's bringing them closer together. I miss seeing them every day but I know that they love me. I hear it when they call me on the phone.  "I talk to them often," I offer to placate my own guilt about not initiating those calls myself.

"Good." He rakes a hand through his dark hair making it even messier than it already is. "You know about Liz, don't you?"

I steel myself to answer the question. The name feels intimate, yet foreign to me. I don't know him very well. We've shared less than a few hours together in tangible time but all of the time I've spent researching him has made me feel I know him. This must be what it's like for those who worship an actor or singer. They carry the knowledge of that person's personal life and that affords them a feeling of familiarity that feels both comfortable and misplaced. I know too much about him yet I find that I want to know more.

I want to know about the accident. I read that she was in a car being driven by an intoxicated man. It crashed into a guardrail on the West Side Highway. The driver died and Liz suffered severe injuries. Beck took her to Paris to a hospital there and helped her heal. The more recent articles I found online chronicled the end of their relationship and her emergence back on New York's social scene, fully healed and happier than ever, according to quotes made by her.

"I read about her accident." I bring the paper cup to my lips and take a small sip. The liquid is cold and bitter now.

"Liz was a friend of my sister-in-law's," he begins before he reaches for the paper cup he placed on the table a few minutes ago. He picks it up briefly before he glances into its empty interior. "I met her a long time ago."

I feel completely uncomfortable. I stare at the empty cup in his hand feeling a need to take it from him to throw it in the trash only because it will break the palpable tension between us.  "I can throw that away for you."

He raises his eyebrows briefly as if he's questioning the question. "The cup? It's fine."

I rub my hand along my cheek. "You don't have to talk about Liz or anyone else. I mean you don't know me very well."

His shoulders shake slightly as he leans forward to rest his forearms on his knees. "I need a friend, Zoe. I don't have very many. I sense you need a friend too. I think we can help each other."

"How can I help you?" I ask even though I already know the answer. He may be famous. He may live a life that most people would envy but he's lonely. Regardless of who he might have picked up and taken home after he put me in that taxi last night, he's still lonely. It's there. It's in his eyes.

"You can listen and I can listen to you." He reaches towards my hand as if he's about to touch it before he pulls back. "You didn't take any shit from me at the pub that first night. I need that right now. I need a friend who can be honest. I need one who can tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. I need hope."

I need everything he needs but I'm too scared to express it. I left everyone behind when I moved to Manhattan. I don't run away from things. It's never been a part of who I am. I stay, I face things, I deal and then I move on but what happened last year is different. It changed every part of my life and forced me to face the truth. The people who tell you that they'll love you no matter what almost always have a caveat to go with that. I need a friend. I need a shoulder to lean on and if that shoulder happens to belong to Brighton Beck, so be it.

"I need hope too," I whisper quietly. "I need it so much."

"Let me be your friend, Zoe." He brushes a wayward strand of hair out of my eyes. "Please be my friend."

"Just friends?" I ask for clarification.

He hesitates only briefly. "Just friends, Zoe.  It's what we both need."

I nod as a rush of disappointment flows through me. I want more. I'll likely always want more but in the big picture of the life I'm trying to build in New York City I need a friend more than I need a lover and Brighton Beck may just be the most amazing best friend I've ever had.